


Lemon Lungs

by kuragay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: And failing sometimes, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Basically Yuuri dealing with his anxiety, But he's working on it, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, a lot of times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 08:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragay/pseuds/kuragay
Summary: Yuuri's been dealing with this his entire life, but it hasn't gotten easier.





	Lemon Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I've been anxious for the entirety of the past two weeks. Let me be a little self-indulgent. 
> 
> Also, the title. Lemons, like being squeezed, like your what your lungs feel like they're doing sometimes when you're freaking out. Get it? (I'm tired and I'm so bad at coming up with titles. Just read the fic okay).

Yuuri’s clearest memory is his heart pounding. So hard. So fast. It’s about to burst from his chest. He doesn’t remember how old (young) he is. He just knows that he’s scared (terrified) and he wants it to _stop._ He can’t breathe and he can’t think and he _can’t breathe._

Everything around him frightens him. He shrugs the hands on him off. Is there an isolated area around that he can hide in? He wants to be alone. He wants to be alone but no one’s letting him leave. He bundles his small hands and press wrap them around himself, crying loud enough to startle everyone in his vicinity.

“Go away,” he cries.

 _“He’s being rude,”_ he hears the adults whisper.

“Go away,” he screams.

 _“Insolent child,”_ he hears a teacher scoff.

Yuuri is young and scared, and all he remembers is not being able to catch his breath.

*

When he’s 12, his parents take him to a clinic.

_Panic disorder._

_Generalized anxiety disorder._

He has a doctor’s note for the teachers now, and they stop scoffing at him. Instead, they look at him with soft, concerned eyes.

 _“Do you need a drink of water?”_ they’ll ask.

 _“Everyone, be nice to Yuuri,”_ they’ll say to the other students.

Every time Yuuri cries, someone gets a teacher in a panic. They think he’s going to break. They think he’s fragile now.

 _What about the kids who never get a doctor’s note?_ Yuuri thinks, and it makes his stomach feel queasy because the teachers never cared until he gave a note. They didn’t care when he couldn’t breathe, when he cried, when he felt like he was dying. They only care about the words on a scrap piece of paper.

When Yuuri’s twelve, he has labels on himself that, somehow, everyone can see.

Sometimes parents say, _“Stay away from that boy. He’s wrong in the head.”_

Or, sometimes they say, _“You have to be careful around him, okay? He’s very sensitive. Treat him delicately.”_

Yuuri is no longer a person. He in an object with anxiety. His jitters are expected movements. His tears are in the ingredients label. His pills are a seasoning that he’s not complete without.

Sometimes he has to take his pills in class, and the boy behind him will kick his chair. _“Doing drugs already, Katsuki? Is that why you’re so fucked in the head?”_

And Yuuri will sit quietly, the pills heavy in his stomach, and he’ll wonder why his brain has to have so much control. He’ll wonder why the boy behind him keeps kicking his chair, and why the pills taste like nothing but feel like everything.

*

When Yuuri feels the panic bubbling, he’ll lace up his skates (tight. If they’re not tight enough, they’ll slip off, and he’ll crack his ankles into pieces), and get on the ice. He triple checks that he’s alone, close his eyes, and go around in figure eights.

One foot. Other foot. Slow. A soft wind whistles in his ear from the movement and he exhales. He’s twenty-three and he hates himself.

Figure skating is hard. Competing is harder. With everyone watching him the moment he gets on the ice, he can’t remember to breathe. He can’t remember how to jump. All he remembers is how to fall.

He sees the chats and forums and comments. He knows he’s a laughing stock. He keeps his private life hidden, but somehow that makes everything worse.

 _“Why does he always look like he’s been crying?”_ A comment says, and Yuuri thinks, _that’s because I’m always crying…duh._

He thinks about how he’ll never catch Viktor, and how Yuri Plisetsky is full of anger and bite, but also full of honesty.

Then Yuuri wonders if he turned off the stove. Did he turn off the stove? (He did. He did. He’s sure).

He hears a sound and his heart rises in his throat. Is someone in the rink with him? (No. The sound came from outside).

He stops skating for a minute, just listening and making sure as his heartbeat settles. It’s just him. It’s just Yuuri. Alone. Like it has always been.

*

Viktor holds his hand like it was what he was born to do. It makes Yuuri feel wanted. But also, he wonders if his hands are too sweaty. Are they clammy? Too cold? Too warm?

“Being healthy sucks,” Yuuri moans as they pass by another fast food place. The streets are filled with them, the smell wafting out invitingly. But then Yuuri thinks of his figure and bites his lip. The cravings are still there. He still wants a fucking burger. But his body. Ugh.

“But it’s good for you,” Viktor says, smiling as he kisses Yuuri’s forehead.

Tokyo is too crowded and loud. Shibuya is scary. Yuuri doesn’t go to Tokyo very often because of how many people there are. It makes his heart rate go crazy, and he wonders if everyone’s staring at him. They must be. He looks weird, and awkward, and no matter how far he shrinks into himself, he can never seem to disappear.

He tugs on Viktor’s hands. “Can we go inside a store to cool down for a second?”

Viktor stops and looks at Yuuri. _Really_ looks at him, and then frowns in concern. “Are you feeling anxious?”

“Yeah.”

Without asking more questions, Viktor tugs Yuuri into the nearest 7-Eleven.

Yuuri breathes as Viktor gives him some space, browning the shelves. Despite how much Yuuri loves Viktor, he hates contact when he gets like this. And Viktor knows, and that just makes Yuuri love him even more.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Someone’s whispering. Three teenage girls. “Oh my god,” the one with red lipstick says. “That’s Viktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri.”

Yuuri swallows. He doesn’t really want to interact with fans right now. He’s bad at it, and his mind is too jumbled, and he already feels terrible. He kind of wants to sit on the floor and just close his eyes. Or go the washroom and shut himself in a stall. He’s good at that. But the girls are standing between him and the washroom, and by now, Viktor has noticed them.

“An autograph?” He asks, all flashy-teethed and sparkly-haired. The girls nod, starry eyed as Viktor takes selfies with them before signing their phone cases.

“Mr. Katsuki!” The girls with the bob calls, and Yuuri’s really just trying not to hyperventilate.

He wants to shove it down, but it keeps rising, and with it comes tears bubbling in his eyes. It’s so frustrating how he can’t even interact properly with fans. How he gets scared and nervous, and he doesn’t understand why they even _like_ him. He’s getting better at it, of course. But not right now. Not when he’s on the verge of panicking.

“Ah,” Viktor says, expression tight. “Actually, Yuuri’s not feeling very well right now and isn’t really up for conversation.” Then he gives each girl a hug. “But it was very nice meeting you three!”

The girls with the darkest and longest hair frowns, eyebrows drawn together in what can only be concern. “Is he okay?”

 _No,_ Yuuri thinks.

“He will be,” Viktor offers, tone apologetic.

The three girls leave the shop, smiling, and Yuuri feels like he’s falling apart. Another failure on top of lists of failures. He’s a walking disaster on two legs.

 _“He will be,”_ Viktor said, and Yuuri knows it’s the truth. It’s always the truth. It feels like the panic is never going to end, but it does. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

“I’m scared,” Yuuri whispers, feeling up for contact again. He buries his face into Viktor’s chest, and Viktor wraps his arms around him. “It’s too loud.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“The train. I can’t go on the train right now.”

Viktor pats Yuuri’s hair, running fingers through them, tousling up his fringe. “Wanna sit in a washroom stall for a while?”

Yuuri almost smiles at that, nodding carefully as Viktor leads him slowly to the washroom.

It’s strange, being squished into a stall with Viktor. Yuuri sits on the toilet seat, shutting his eyes. “Everyone will think we’re having sex,” Yuuri mumbles, counting backwards from one hundred.

“Let them,” Viktor grins. He starts to moan like he's singing a song, and it's so entirely ridiculous but horrible at the same time.

“Viktor!” Yuuri snorts, trying to supress his laughter because he’s already having trouble getting enough air into his lungs. And gosh, someone's really going to walk in. And this is Japan! Maybe it wouldn't be so mortifying if they were in America. But in Japan, Yuuri would rather die than cause a scene.

Viktor seems to realize this, quieting down immediately as he massages Yuuri’s scalp. “Sorry,” he mutters, untangling a knot in Yuuri's hair while he's at it.

It’s getting a bit hot. The closer to a panic attack Yuuri gets, the more flustered he becomes. He sheds his tan coat, slinging it over Viktor’s shoulders, and wonders why he wore it in the first place.

His breathing is evening out though. Enough that he can open his eyes again without freaking out. He doesn’t know why closes his eyes, but the darkness helps. It’s weird. Sometimes when this happens at home, Viktor will help him shut all the lights, and he’ll just sit in the dark for a while.

As a child, Yuuri thought monsters lived in the dark. Now he knows better. The only monster in the dark is himself, and he’s not really a monster. He’s human. That’s all he is. He’s Yuuri, and his brain hates him sometimes, but he’s human. Not a freak. Not _wrong_ in the head. He’s loved and can love, he can think, and usually he can breathe.

“Let’s go home,” Yuuri says after ten more minutes of nothing but steady inhalation and exhalation.

“Okay,” Viktor says easily, like it was what he was waiting for Yuuri to say this entire time. Yuuri knows how to cope with his anxiety without Viktor. He’s been doing it for most of his life. But somehow, with Viktor there, it’s easier.

*

Russia is even worse than Tokyo. For one, the weather. It’s _cold._ For another, it’s full of strangers. The ice rink usually is a place Yuuri can relax in, but now it’s always filled with someone training. And he’s new. He doesn’t have the right to ask for private rink time. Or maybe he does, but he’s too afraid to.

“I can just ask Yakov. He’ll understand.”

Yuuri frowns. “But I always need private time. That’s not fair. I can’t just kick everyone out just because I get anxious.”

“Hmm.” Viktor furrows his eyebrows, thinking.

“It’s alright,” Yuuri says. “Really. I’ll be fine.” He’s not sure about that, but he hopes it’s true. This isn’t like Hasetsu where he could go to the rink whenever he wanted and have it all to himself. He’s training with Viktor now. It’s a big rink full of scary people, and Yuuri’s doesn’t want to bother anyone. He’ll just stay out of everyone’s way. It’s what he’s best at, after all.

*

 _“That Katsuki kid’s kind of closed off,”_ Yuuri hears one of the skaters say. Automatically, he brings his shoulders in and shrinks away, even though it’s only proving the other skater’s point.

_“I heard he has anxiety or something. Leave the poor thing alone.”_

Okay, so Yuuri’s not actually offended. Just a little put off. He _does_ have anxiety, but it doesn’t encompass all he is. He’s pretty sure he has a personality outside of it. It’s not the other skaters’ faults. He has trouble opening up to them, and they probably don’t want to make him uncomfortable by initiating conversation. Still, it’s a little disheartening, which only adds to the stress already accumulating.

He breathes deeply, shaking his arms as if that would dispel all his worries. It’s no use. He feels just as bad as earlier, if not more so. His body is constantly tense, and the jittery feeling inside his chest presses and presses. In weird moments, he’ll get so acutely anxious for two seconds that he braces himself for an anxiety attack.

It doesn’t happen. But it’s close, so close. He dreads the inevitable.

*

He can’t breathe.

There’s another Russian skater, pressing him against the wall. His arms are veined and straining as they clamp around Yuuri’s body, and weirdly entrancing, but Yuuri tears his eyes away because it’s making his vision sway. “Go home,” he says to Yuuri, and there’s a hitch in Yuuri’s breath because his lungs are flopping around like dead fish.

He hates the tightness squeezing him out of words. He hates how he wishes to not be scared. “I’m not getting in your way,” Yuuri chokes out. “I don’t see why I should leave.”

The Russian slams Yuuri back into the wall, and his entire spine rattles painfully. He thinks he might’ve yelped a little. “Let me go,” Yuuri cries, biting his tongue harshly to hold in his rasping breaths.

_He’s going to die here, and no one will know. This man is going to break every bone in his body. He’ll never see Viktor again. He’s going to die, and break, not necessarily in that order, and no one will know that this man did it. And Viktor will be devastated, and Yurio might be too. And he’ll never hear his mom, dad, or sister’s voices again._

Except, none of that even has a chance of happening, because Yuuri cracks all by himself. The rising panic completely engulfs him until the world is spinning in rapid circles, and the food in his stomach is rising. He really doesn’t want to throw up right now. But at the same time, he thinks this man deserves to get vomit on his shirt.

“Let me go,” Yuuri rasps, shaking. He draws in a breath, but his lungs are so tight they don’t seem to expand. All he wants to do is tuck his head between his legs or something. Maybe cover his ears after sticking in some headphones. Because being held up against the wall with nowhere to hide feels horrible.

“Shit,” he hears the Russian man curse, his grip immediately slackening the moment Yuuri starts hyperventilating. He’s trying really hard not to, counting in his head as he breathes, but he can’t stop. “Shit,” the man repeats. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Yuuri drops to the floor like an empty sack of potatoes and curls in on himself, wanting to scream. There’s no reason to panic, at least not anymore. But his brain hasn’t gotten the memo and it’s the most frustrating thing.

A hesitant hand is set on Yuuri’s shoulder, awkward and uncertain. “Shit man, I’m sorry. I only meant to scare you a little.” And then, “I’ll, uh, go get Nikiforov. Just, um, don’t go anywhere.”

Yuuri almost wants to snort. Where could he even go in this state? He feels like he’s _dying._ Okay, so not really. And he knows he’s not actually dying. But the point is that he feels like crap and nothing the stupid asshole just said is helping. Well, getting Viktor might help.

“Yuuri!” Speak of the devil and he shall come running to his panicking boyfriend (wait, that’s definitely not the saying). Viktor’s being followed by the other Russian man, but Yuuri doesn’t care. He just wants to go home. Wants a shot a shower and a warm bed, and a warm Viktor.

He just wants today to end.

*

The Russian man who Yuuri doesn’t even know the name of is not welcome to the rink anymore. That’s fine. Or at least, it should be. But it only serves to make his anxiety to spike more.

Because what if that man has a revenge scheme now? What if he’ll come after Yuuri? What if he’s angrier?

But then Yuuri remembers the man’s panic as he said, _“Shit, shit, shit.”_ And he manages to calm down for a split second.

_But seriously. What if he comes after me?_

Fuck. Yuuri really needs his brain to shut up. Stupid, illogical brain. He grabs his own cheeks, twisting hard.

“Yuuri?” Viktor walks into the room and blink. “Yuuri!” He grabs Yuuri’s hands, holding them. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to make my brain work,” Yuuri mumbles, pressing himself against Viktor’s chest soundly, letting out deep, stuttering breaths. There are squirming warms and angry moths from the bottom of Yuuri’s stomach to the top of his throat.

“Your brain is fine, honey. It’s lovely, and wonderful, and also not in your cheeks.”

“My brain is stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

Viktor sighs, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead. “There. My kiss has healed your brain. All better.”

Yuuri looks at Viktor dryly. He raises an eyebrow, and, “What is up with you expecting your kisses to be magical? That's not exactly what I need right now."

“Ah...I fucked up, didn’t I,” Viktor says, a bit sheepish.

Crap. Yuuri didn’t mean to take his bad day out on Viktor. It just…happened. “No.” He places his hands on Viktor’s cheeks, patting them. “You’re great. I’m just…being annoying.”

“You aren’t annoying. Are you anxious? Is that why?”

 _Yes._ “Just a little.”

“Let’s lay in bed and watch some videos. How does that sound?” Maneuvering him over to the bed, Viktor gets the computer before snuggling Yuuri underneath his arms. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri smiles. “It’s great.”

*

The Russian man is back. Yuuri blinks and breathes sharply. “I thought he wasn’t welcome here anymore,” he whispers to Yakov.

Yakov rubs his temples. “Bogdan, tell him.”

To Yuuri surprise and distress, Bogdan gets down in a bow.

“I’m very sorry,” Bogdan says, head to the floor. “What I did was unacceptable, and I’ll accept all repercussions.”

_Ah, so this is why he’s back at the rink._

Hesitantly, Yuuri puts a hand on Bogdan’s shoulder. “Hey, um, can you look up?”

Bogdan looks up, tears in his eyes. Yuuri almost wants to cry himself because this is so _awkward._

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says. “Well, it’s not. I’m just. I’m not trying to take Viktor away from Russia or anything. I just love him a lot, and being here with him is really nice. And I’m pretty sure he loves me too, so that’s a plus.”

Yakov snorts. “'Pretty sure he loves me too,' he says." Yakov rubs him temples like he's waiting for his age to hit him in the face and take away the rest of his hair. "Right. Takes a blind man to not see that Vitya’s head over heels with you.”

Yuuri laughs to hide his anxiety. “Right. Yeah.” He looks back at Bogdan, who is now maintaining really good eye contact. Which would be a good thing except Yuuri’s always had trouble looking into people’s eyes. Eyes are too…much. They tell too much and express too much and see too much. When Yuuri looks into people’s eyes, it always feels like he’s looking up and that others are automatically making assumptions and conclusions. Basically, it’s the feeling of being judged. There’s that weird itch over his skin and he always, always has to tear his eyes away.

“Anyway,” Yuuri continues, trembling a little now. “I’m kind of, um, very anxious. Like, I have an anxiety disorder. So you triggered a panic attack. So yeah, that’s not okay. You didn’t know I have anxiety, but what you did was assault. You know that, right?”

Bogdan nods, inhaling. “I’m sorry. I’ll never do anything like that again. I let petty envy get in the way and neglected your mental and physical health in a terrible manner.”

“Alright. You’re forgiven.” Yuuri smiles softly, and pats Bogdan on the head before withdrawing quickly. _Why a head pat?!_

Oh. Yuuri looks behind him and sees a silver hair from around the corner. Hah, it’s exactly like Viktor to listen in on conversations that are none of his business.

“Bogdan. Get out of the rink. You still aren’t welcome here until you show me proof of thirty hours of community service,” Yakov says, looking ready for a long nap. Possibly one that lasts six months. “Katsuki, go to your fiancé over there. I think he’s about to have an aneurysm.”

 _Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself, sir?_ Yuuri almost says before biting his tongue. “Right.” He starts walking away hurriedly before he actually says something he’ll regret.

“Oh, and Katsuki.” Yuuri pauses. “You’re a good kid. Look after yourself.”

Yuuri swallows, playing with the hem of his shirt. “Okay,” he croaks. He rounds the corner and nearly crashes into Viktor, exhausted.

“Am I not allowed to beat that guy up?” Viktor asks.

“His name is Bogdan,” Yuuri says.

“Whatever,” Viktor mutters, eyes narrowing as they follow Bogdan's figure. "Who cares about his name."

“Please don’t beat him up.” Yuuri leans up and kisses Viktor chastly before shutting his eyes. “You Russians are all so dramatic. Maybe that’s why you’re balding so fast.”

Viktor’s noise of indignation is loud enough to burst an eardrum. “A wide forehead isn’t the same as balding!”

*

The sunlight seeps through the blinds as Yuuri blinks through his sleep.

The sky outside must be brightening. It must be nearing morning. He should get up. He should get ready. He should—

*

Maybe later.

*

His heart feels heavy, like it’s made of industrialized, polluting material instead of muscles and blood and life.

He should get up. He should go to practice. He should eat and drink and—

*

Maybe later.

*

His lungs are squeezing, tighter and tighter like a blood pressure monitor. Viktor is stroking his hair.

“Not a good day,” Yuuri mumbles, eyes crusty.

He is floating and lost and every limb must weigh a thousand pounds.

“Let me call Yakov and tell him we aren’t coming today,” Viktor says, soft enough to not startle Yuuri, but loud enough to be heard.

“Mmkay.” Yuuri pulls the covers tighter around his body and lets himself sink into a bed of hatred and hurt.

*

He is alone. He knows from the coldness around him.

He wants to get out of bed, but he’s too anxious. But staying in bed is making him even more anxious. He needs to be productive. He needs to skate. He needs to do _something—_

*

Maybe later.

*

It’s dark again.

The frustration has accumulated to the point where Yuuri’s ready to scream, or cry, or both.

There is someone next to him again. Viktor is back.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Yuuri says, sniffling. Viktor starts stroking his hair again.

“We’ll certainly try. But don’t worry about tomorrow right now. Just breathe.”

*

Yuuri wakes up. It’s morning. He climbs out of bed lethargically, bone-tired even though he slept all day yesterday. He opens the blind and frowns. It’s cloudy.

He opens the window, inhaling fresh air, before heading to the washroom to splash cold water on his face. It feels nice to get rid of the layer of oil and grim. There’s no way to get rid of the layer of regret and anxiety though. Too bad.

Today isn’t great. But it’s better.

*

He skates figure eights, and Viktor goes around telling people to give him some room.

A calm slowly blooms in his body. A dousing of water on the fire. The sharp squeezing of his lungs have slowly stopped. He hopes they don’t come back anytime soon. It sucks. Sometimes, he feels like he’s a fruit being juiced, depleted of all his life source until he’s skin and pulp.

Okay, bad analogy. But the point is that he doesn’t feel that great sometimes.

Yuuri tries a short step sequence, and it works out alright. He hears Viktor cheer a little, and it sends a rush of pleasant warmth through him, thawing some of the stiffness. Yuuri does a spin, then a faster spin, then the world is going past him in blurs and he wants it to stay this way forever. But then he sees Viktor’s in the blob of colours that has become his vision, or at least what he assumes to be Viktor, and Yuuri stops, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

He breathes, shaking the jitters out. Tomorrow might be a bad day ( _wait, no, don’t think like that!),_ but today really isn’t terrible.

His shoulders relax.

He has been dealing with this his entire life, and it hasn’t gotten easier. But he can catch his breath right now.

“It’s a good day,” Yuuri announces. He laughs when the rest of the rink cheers.


End file.
